Divided Allegiance

by Elizabeth Moon

  It was not nearly so large as the one she had been with in Aarenis: seven wagons loaded with barrels and bales, with two guards besides the driver on each. The merchants—a blond human and two gnomes in sober colors but richer cloth than the gnome teamsters—rode saddle mules. Paks noticed that none of the gnomes smiled, though the human merchant grinned a farewell to Hebbinford, and promised to bring a barrel of "Marrakai red" on the way back. She went on with her breakfast, and was just washing down the last crumbs of it when Ambros appeared outside. She leaned out the window and called to him.

  "I thought I'd come here," he said, dismounting. "If we're riding east today—"

  "Just a moment—" Paks gestured to Hebbinford, who came to take her coins. "I know I'm late, but I thought I'd have time to breakfast before work today."

  "Don't rush." Ambros did not seem in any hurry. "Shall I saddle your horse for you?"

  "No. I don't know how he'd behave." Paks hurried up to her room, remembering the Marshal's injunction to wear mail every day. She was startled to see the black-clad man lounging in the upper passage. Had he been trying her door? But he smiled and nodded, as if glad to see her. Paks unlocked her door thoughtfully and latched it behind her. Everything seemed to be in place. She donned the lightweight mail the elfane taig had given her, pulled her shirt back over it, and caught up her old cloak. With that rolled into a bundle under her arm, she came back into the passage, and found it empty. She had heard no footsteps passing.

  By the time she was back downstairs, Ambros had led his horse into the inn yard. He was munching a hot pastry, and grinned at her as she went into the stable. Sevri was busily cleaning out stalls; Paks thought of telling her about the black-clad man, but decided against it. She saddled the black horse without trouble, led it into the yard, and mounted. Ambros swung into his own saddle and they rode out, turning right onto the east road.

  "How far out this way have you ridden?" he asked.

  "Not very. I came in this way—on a trail that joins the road from the south."

  "I know the one."

  "I've ridden that far—no more."

  "Let's go to the border, then," said Ambros. Paks looked at him. He seemed happy and younger, like a child at a fair. She wondered what the life of a yeoman marshal was like.

  "How far is that?"

  "Oh—if we keep moving, we can be there and back by tonight. Late tonight."

  "Should we?"

  Ambros grinned at her. "Probably not. But it would be fun. I grew up near the border; I know the country. We won't get lost, and I don't think anything this way will bother us."

  "Well, the Marshal said—"

  "The Marshal said ride other ways than west. This is other. By Gird, Paks, I haven't had a day to myself since—" he stopped suddenly, and ran his hand through his hair. Paks remembered suddenly that she had not brought her helmet, and felt stupid. What good was mail, when a head-blow could kill so easily? "Anyway," he went on, more calmly, "I don't see that it will hurt to ride all day. If we don't make it that far by noon, then we'll turn back. Why not?"

  Paks wondered if he really wanted to visit his home. She did not want to ask. She wondered what Ambros would say if she turned back for her helmet. Would he think she was a coward? Was he even wearing mail himself? She tried to see, and could not tell. The mail from the elfane taig, she had found, did not jingle as her other mail shirt had; she thought perhaps good mail did not. In the end she said nothing, and they jogged on together, into the morning sun.

  When nothing happened for some time, Paks quit thinking so much about an arrow in the head, and instead enjoyed the ride. A thin haze covered the sun, thickening to a gray ceiling as they rode. Ambros frowned at the sky.

  "If that keeps up, we'd better turn back."

  "Why?"

  "From that direction, it means rain, or even an early snow." He sighed. "I might have known that Gird himself would shorten my leash, with the Marshal gone."

  Paks stared at him; he looked both unhappy and slightly worried. "Ambros, what is it?"

  "I—I'll tell you, Paks, but please don't tell everyone. I'd hoped to—to go as far as my father's farm. It's been over a year, now, and it less than a day's ride away. And I wonder if I'll ever see them again."

  "But if it's that close, why haven't you—?"

  "Because the Marshal hasn't allowed it," said Ambros shortly, reining his bay around to the west. "It's been one thing after another—chores, drills, whatever. My father's been in to Brewersbridge, of course, to the markets. My mother came once, last spring. But it'll be spring before either of them come again. I just wanted to see them one more time before winter." He sighed again. "It was a foolish idea."

  "But why? I mean, just because it's going to rain—I don't melt in the rain, Ambros—not even in snow. How far is it?"

  He shook his head. "No. Paks, you're not a Girdsman; I can't explain. But I tried to go on my own, and it's not what I should do. With Marshal Cedfer gone, the grange is my responsibility. The clouds are another warning; the first was in my own heart. We'll go back. I pray Gird that no more will be required."

  Puzzled, and a little put out, Paks followed Ambros back toward Brewersbridge. The clouds thickened, and soon a fine drizzle wet her face. It was not enough to penetrate her cloak. She nudged the black horse and rode up beside Ambros.

  "Ambros, do you really think Gird made it rain because you wanted to see your family?" She thought even less of Gird if that was his sort of action.

  "No, not exactly." Ambros spoke slowly, as if more lay behind his words than he wanted to say. "I don't know, to be honest, where the clouds came from—the High Lord may grant the wind's keys to any he wishes, I daresay. But Marshal Cedfer did say the grange was my responsibility—even if you find the brigands, he said, I cannot fight them with you."

  "But did he tell you not to visit your family?" Paks persisted.

  "No. I think—I think he knew I would want to go, but did not insult me by telling me my duty." Ambros gave a short laugh. "He should have."

  "But you—"

  "Paks," said Ambros, with a look that stopped the words in her mouth. "Paks, you have been a soldier in many battles—have you ever had a dream of death?"

  She stared at him, surprised into long silence. "Not—exactly," she said finally. "Some of my friends have—I have had disturbing dreams, though, if that's what you mean."

  "Have you—did you ever know someone to have a true dream like that?"

  "Once." Paks swallowed with difficulty. She wondered what dream had come to Ambros. When she glanced at him, he was staring at his horse's mane, fists clenched on the reins.

  "I—I saw myself," he said softly. She could barely hear him. "I saw myself fighting—and struck—and dying. And then nothing. I know—" he said, turning to meet her eyes. "I know that all Girdsmen train for this, to fight evil to the death. But—but Paks, it was so soon. You know this cut—" He pushed back his sleeve to show a cut she had dealt him in practice the night before. "It wasn't healed yet; I could see it, under the other marks."

  Paks shivered violently. Ambros's face seemed to waver, changing from the ruddy living countenance before her to the pale fixed expression she had seen on so many dead. "It was a dream," she managed to say. "And not all dreams are true."

  "I know." He nodded, seeming more at ease. "I know that. But I thought—I thought I'd like to see my father and mother again." He looked sideways at her. "Do you think less of me for that?"

  "No. Of course not." But she felt older than a boy who had seen his parents within the past half-year, who had been home a year ago.

  "I wondered—you being a soldier, and all. You've seen more fighting than I have. To be honest, I've never faced an actual enemy."

  Paks did not know what to say. She did not feel like boasting of her experience. She thought, as she often did these days, of her own home, and wondered for the first time if she would see her own family again. But she had had no troubling dreams, and had no fears. She
smiled at Ambros, hoping to reassure him. "You fight well, Ambros, in practice; I expect you'll fight well when need comes. I hope it is not as soon as you fear. Will you tell the Marshal of this dream?"

  "I would have, if he had not left already. Yes, he must know, in case it is an evil sending. I thank you, Paks, for not laughing at me."

  They were back at the inn in time for a late lunch; Paks persuaded Ambros to eat with her. She had decided to show him the scrolls from the elfane taig; if she had not laughed at his bad dreams, perhaps he would not laugh at her slow reading. But they ate slowly, and it was near midafternoon when she started upstairs to get the scrolls. She had them in her hand when a disturbance in the street below brought her to the window.

  A yelling crowd surrounded a blood-stained man bareback on a fat mule. As Paks watched, Ambros erupted from the inn door, followed by Hebbinford. The crowd spotted him, ran to him.

  "Robbers!" she heard. "Robbers! The caravan!" The man on the mule slid off sideways; two men caught him, half-carried him toward the inn. Paks saw Sevri's red head move through the crowd and take the mule by the bridle. She waited to see no more, but turned away and ran quickly downstairs.

  Hebbinford and Ambros bent over the man, who half-lay in a chair near the fireplace, his clothes torn and bloody. Paks saw the black-clad man leaning quietly against the wall behind several others, who were chattering loudly. He caught her eye and smiled; Paks felt herself blushing. Ambros glanced up and saw her.

  "Paks, good. Come here, will you?" Paks moved through the group, aware of curious glances. She had seen, from above, that Ambros commanded more of their respect than she'd thought—at least when the Marshal was away.

  "What is it?" she asked.

  "This man says he was a teamster on the caravan that left this morning. They were attacked by brigands on the west road, and all the guards were killed."

  Paks looked at the man—a stocky, darkly tanned man of medium height—and wondered just where on the west road. Ambros was asking more questions; she could not hear the soft answers. Hebbinford began clearing the others out of the room. Over his shoulder he said, "I'll tell the mayor." Paks wondered who would be sent to Sir Felis.

  With the room empty and quiet, Paks could hear the man's replies to Ambros's questions—hundreds of bandits, he said shakily. Hundreds and hundreds, with horses and bows and swords. They took the whole caravan, every animal and wagon, and killed all the guards, and—

  "How did you escape?" asked Ambros. "Isn't that one of the caravan mules?"

  Paks would not have thought the dark face could darken, but it did. "I was the last wagon, sir. I heard a noise—that stretch of road has an evil name, you know—and so I cut the lead offside mule free, and—"

  "Ran for it," finished Ambros, with the same tone Paks thought the Marshal would have used.

  "Well, I tried." Paks watched the man's face as he took a long difficult breath. "But that Simyits-damned son of a Pargunese jackass bucked me off, that he did. And ran away, after dumping me flat in the midst of it all. So I lay there too stunned to run or fight, and I reckon that was best, in the end. One of 'em poked me a little, but I made shift to lie still and be quiet. I heard 'em talking, telling each other to be sure all the guards were dead. Then they tried to catch my mule, but they couldn't lay a finger on him, so they went off. I waited a bit—and I was some sore, too, sir—and then when I did sit up there was that damned mule not a length away, heehaw-ing at the blood smell. Then he came to me, and thank the luck for that. I counted all the guards' bodies, sir, and so I know—"

  "What about the merchants, and the other teamsters?"

  "The teamsters are all dead, gnome and man alike. I didn't see the merchants' bodies, but I doubt they live."

  "Hmm." Ambros sounded, again, very like the Marshal. "Where was this? It seems to me you're back soon and luckily with such a tale."

  The man paled a little. "Sir, please! I swear it's the truth. We left early this dawn, the landlord can tell you. And the road was dry; we made good time. Old Cobai—that's the master—he didn't want to stop for nooning in that stretch of woods, so we pressed on, eating on the seat as we drove. I had just finished my pickle when I heard the noise. Coming back, sir, I fair beat that mule to a lather."

  Ambros gave Paks a quick look; she could not tell his meaning. But something made her speak up. "How badly are you hurt, can you tell?"

  The man looked at her gratefully. "They poked me some, lady, and I fell hard before that. I wrapped my own shirt on it—this is off a guard—" He indicated his blood-stained shirt.

  "Well, you'd best let us see. Yeoman-marshal, is there a surgeon in town?" She hoped she was right to use his title.

  "Yes," said Ambros. "At the keep, with Sir Felis." He looked aside. "We'll need clean cloths, and water—it's too bad the Marshal is gone."

  "That's what they counted on, no doubt," said the driver. Paks, meanwhile, had unwrapped the rag he had bound to his head; underneath was an ugly gash. She thought it looked bone-deep.

  "It's no wonder they thought you dead with that head wound," she commented. "What's your name?"

  "Jeris, lady. Jeris Angarn, of Dapplevale in Lyonya. Do you know it?"

  "No. Be steady, now." Paks helped Ambros uncover the man's other injuries—mostly bruises but for two shallow gashes in side and back. "You're lucky, Jeris. They could easily have killed you."

  "I know it." He shifted uneasily as they began to clean the wounds. "It—ouch!—sorry. If that mule hadn't bucked, they might have got me sure; they had horses. I don't deserve it, that's the truth, but that's luck. It comes as Simyits pleases—"

  "You think Simyits has more power than the High Lord?" asked Ambros. "Is that what you learned in Lyonya?"

  "Oh, sir—in Lyonya, I was a boy, and had a boy's faith. But I've been on the roads near twenty years, now, and I've seen good luck and bad come to all. As for the High Lord, he made the whole world, so I hear, if it wasn't Sertig instead, but what does he have to do with a mule driver? The good men, you might say, died today—they that was brave, and tried to fight. And here I am, alive a bit longer, and able to give you word, because a mule bucked me off on my hard head. Does the High Lord extend his power to make a mule buck?"

  Paks stifled a laugh. She had heard of Simyits only as the thieves' god, and the gambler's patron, but the muleteer seemed honest if not brave. Ambros, however, was sober, and crouched down to meet the man's eyes.

  "If the High Lord wanted your mule to buck, Jeris, be sure he could do it. But there is one more near us than that—Gird Strongarm, a man once, like you. He had a hard head himself, and it's said he knows how to convince another. I would not call it luck alone, if I found myself alive, when my companions were all dead—and a mule nearby to ride on, despite the blood-smell. Does your mule love you so, to buck you off, escape capture, and then return for you?"

  Jeris's face furrowed as he tried to think. "Well—now—I see what you mean. To be honest, I wouldn't have thought that donkey-spawn would stay near new dead like that. But why would Gird, if he wanted me alive, dump me on my head first? Why not save the whole caravan and set fire to the brigands?"

  "Why is there winter? Why does water flow downhill only?" Ambros sounded even more like a Marshal. "The High Lord lets men deal with men, as often as not. As for you, perhaps Gird knew your mule could not outrun their horses—or perhaps he was seeking an entrance into your hard head, and tried knocking first."

  "Peace, Ambros," said Sir Felis from the doorway. "You can convert the man later, but for now I'd like to know what happened." Behind him a surgeon carried a cloth bag of gear; Master Zinthys, in still another robe, followed him, and smiled at Paks.

  When the man had told his tale again, and the surgeon had settled him in one of the inn's rooms, Sir Felis, Zinthys, Ambros, and Paks conferred in a small room opening off the kitchen.

  "Hundreds of brigands I simply do not believe," said Sir Felis. "They haven't stolen enough food and forage for anything
like that number. In this case they killed twenty, and captured several—we aren't sure how many. But out of ambush, that wouldn't take more than a score of well-armed, disciplined troops. Perhaps fewer. Certainly I don't think they can have more than—" he paused, looked up at the lamp, and thought a moment. "Thirty, I'd say. And fewer horses than that. Most of the caravans they've hit have been carrying dry goods, weapons, that sort of thing—not food."

  "Yes, but now what?" asked Ambros. "You know Marshal Cedfer said I couldn't go—what do we do now?"

  Sir Felis looked at Paks. "It's your choice, since you accepted the task—but if you want advice—"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Then I would say let me take a troop out there, as everyone expects, and pick up the bodies. Contrive some reason for riding that way yourself tomorrow—not just riding, something else—and see if you can find a trace of the wagons' movement. I won't even look; it'll be dark by the time I get out there with my men. If you find it, don't be in too much hurry to follow it up. They'll be watching the road pretty closely for a day or so, I expect. Give them time to relax. Then—if it's where we think—go after them."

  Paks shook her head. "By your leave, sir, I have another thought. An assault on a keep—even a ruined keep—is no easy matter. We tried that once in Aarenis. Why not try to frighten them out—catch them at their bolthole?"

  "The game trail you're thinking of?"

  "Yes, but close by the keep. If a show of frontal assault—"

  "With what?" asked Sir Felis. "I can't give you a troop."

  "No, but Master Zinthys might have some magical means." She glanced at him. "Macenion—the part-elf I was traveling with—had some illusions. I thought perhaps—"

  Zinthys looked pleased, though Ambros frowned. "In fact, Lady Paksenarrion, illusions are a specialty of mine. Far less dangerous to the onlooker than, say, real firebolts."

  "And easier to do," muttered Ambros softly. Zinthys glared at him.